


A Study in Duplicates

by makokitten



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: Chance Meetings, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-13
Updated: 2011-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-27 07:40:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makokitten/pseuds/makokitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or "How John Watson Got Steven Moffat to Write a Television Program about his Blog."  While Sherlock investigates, John Watson meets a young actor dancing to Michael Jackson who seems to know a lot about the both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Duplicates

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the wonderful h3rring. Not as weird as it sounds on the tin, I promise.

\---

            It begins when John and Sherlock receive their invitations.

            Now, admittedly, they’ve been attracting more attention from media outlets lately, so this is nothing unusual.  Sherlock in particular has been getting more mail—invitations to intellectual events, yes, but also fan mail (which he ceremonially disposes of after chiding John for romanticizing him to the nth degree).  These particular invitations, however, bear no return address.  In fact, there’s no indication of who sent them at all.  There are two of them, one for John, one for Sherlock, and the address, as Sherlock informs John, is a nice, old venue usually used for private dinner parties.

            Sherlock busily scrutinizes the envelope and the invitation as John reclines in his chair reading the paper.  Finally, Sherlock sets the invitation down on the table, frustrated.  “Useless!” he exclaims.  “Absolutely commonplace.  Nothing traceable about them.  Nothing unique at all, in fact, except for you being invited as well.”

            John looks up, puzzled.  “Am I usually not invited?”

            “No, I’m typically given the option of _bringing_ you.”  Sherlock combs his fingers through his hair as John tries not to think too hard about why that stings.  _Bringing_ John.  Like he’s an accessory.  Better than being his date, John supposes, unless that’s what was implied—  “What does it mean?”

            Folding the paper and putting it aside, John clasps his hands in his lap.  “Could be a trap.”

            “Could be.”

            John licks his lips.  “So we’re not going, then?”

            “Of course we’re going!” Sherlock exclaims.  “Don’t be _boring_ , John.  That very same venue happens to be the last known location of a promising actress who disappeared five years ago.  I have reason to believe her husband murdered her in or around the premises—cold case, pet project of mine.  Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to pursue it with the place closed to the public other than when it hosts ludicrously overpriced private parties.”

            “Oh, _I_ see,” John says.  “So we’re going to RSVP, go, you’re going to have a look around while I open myself to the possibility of, I don’t know, being kidnapped, we grab some hors d’oeuvres, and then we leave.”

            “Skip the hors d’oeuvres, you know I never eat while I’m working.”

            “Right,” says John, sitting back in his chair.  “Okay.  Just wanted to make sure we were on the same page.”

            Sherlock examines him intently for a minute with one of his disarming, pointed stares, and then smiles.  John can’t help but smile back.

\---

            A few days later, John and Sherlock show up at the stipulated address.  The invitations specify “formal attire,” so John dons a suit and tie for the occasion.  Sherlock doesn’t alter his style of dress at all, which works, John supposes.  At least they blend in.  The crowd is a healthy mix of men and women, not too young, not too old, all well-dressed and attractive.  Many of them seem to already know each other.  John puts his hands in his pockets, wondering if he looks as awkward and out of place as he feels.  He can’t very well walk up to someone and ask why he’s here, can he?

            No more than a minute after they walk in the door, Sherlock leans forward to murmur in John’s ear: “I need you to cover for me while I investigate the back of the building.”

            “Cover for you?  What, like say you’ve gone to the loo?”

            “No, no, John, for God’s sake, that’s the oldest excuse in the book, wouldn’t explain more than two minutes—no, we need something a little more…”  Sherlock glances around the room.  “Oh!  There we are.  Perfect.  Do you see that man over there, the one on the dance floor doing a very poor imitation of Michael Jackson?”

            John squints.  “Yes…”

            “Resembles me a bit, don’t you think?  Go and follow him around and no one will know the difference.”

            “Wait.”  John does a double-take.  “You… want me to talk to some random bloke and pretend he’s you?”

            “Knew you’d catch on.”

            John glances back at the man in question.  “But I—”

            Sherlock has vanished.

            Sighing, John walks over to the dance floor, trying not to attract any undue attention.  No one’s looking at him, which is fine.  He’s tense, though, wondering when the trap is going to spring, glancing around, memorizing his surroundings.  Soldier’s instincts.  It seems like forever before he reaches the dance floor, and even longer before he convinces himself to do as Sherlock says and tap the dancing man on the shoulder.

            “Err, excuse me,” he says.  “Could I have a word with you?  Over there?”

            “What?”

            “Just a word, I just want a word.  Very quick.”

            The man is giving John an odd look, trying to place him.  Although he does bear a certain resemblance to John’s flatmate, he seems younger than Sherlock—maybe because he’s actually enjoying himself at the party.  _Fun_ for Sherlock does not entail _partying_.  “Oh, sure, no problem.”

            John and the man walk away from the dance floor to stand by one of the tables where the music isn’t quite so overpowering.  John keeps his hands in his pockets, feeling sheepish.  So he lured this poor, (presumably) innocent guy into a private conversation.  Now what?

            Luckily, the man takes care of that for him.  “Sorry, are you—John Watson?”

            Well, that’s a shock.  John stares.  “Yes, I am…”

            “Really!”  The man grins, a very genuine, very full grin that almost _glows_.  It looks weird on a face that’s so much like Sherlock’s.  Sherlock only ever lights up like that when there’s been a triple homicide.  Holding out his hand, the man says, “Benedict Cumberbatch, nice to meet you.  Love your blog, by the way.  Thought I recognized you from your picture.”

            Confused, John shakes the hand of his new acquaintance.  “Thank you, Mr. Cumberbatch.  I—didn’t know my blog had such an extensive readership.”

            “Call me Benedict.  And, you didn’t?  We all read it.”  Benedict gestures to the entire room of well-dressed people.  Seeing that John doesn’t look any less confused, he follows up with, “You seem surprised.”

            “Well, yes,” John confesses.  “Truth be told, I actually have no idea why I’m here.”

            “What, you mean no one’s told you?”

            “Told me what?” John asks, now _thoroughly_ bewildered.  “No one’s said anything.  The invitations were anonymous, and—”

            “ _Oh_.”  Benedict laughs.  He seems pleasant enough.  Probably not a potential kidnapper.  “Right, I remember that.  But that’s the only way they knew they’d get Sherlock to come!  See—Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss—that’s them over there—want to make a television show based on your blog.”

            John, so in shock that he doesn’t even look over, can only say, “What?”

            “Yes, they wanted to speak with you and Sherlock about it.”

            “What?” John asks, a little louder.  A little too loud.  He clears his throat.  “Um, sorry, like reality television?”

            “No, no, a dramatization.”  Benedict shrugs.  “It’s all in the early stages, so it might never happen, but they were talking to me about playing Sherlock, so I was hoping to meet him.”  He scans the room.  “Do you know where he is?”

            “Um, he had to phone someone.”  John feels like he’s been transported into some alternate reality.  This has to be a dream.  When he looks back at Benedict, though, something clicks in his mind.  “But why don’t you try him out?”

            Benedict glances back at him.  “Sorry?”

            “Here, go on, imitate Sherlock.  I’ll let you know how you do.”

            “Oh, no,” Benedict says, protesting.  “No, I couldn’t possibly—”

            “No, you’re an actor, I’m sure you’ll do fine,” John says warmly.  “Just start telling me about the walls or something.  Berate me, that’ll be good.  Make it up as you go, err, improvise.  After all, _I_ couldn’t possibly give the green light on a—television program—”  _Jesus_.  “—if I didn’t think we were going to be taken seriously.”

            Benedict thinks about it for a second, then nods.  “All right,” he says.  “But feel free to let me know if I get something wrong.”

\---

            Fifteen minutes later, a small crowd has gathered to listen to Benedict Cumberbatch speak at length about the wallpaper and what it reveals about the history of the room.  John stands a few feet away, nodding along, _considerably_ impressed, when a hand on his arm yanks him away.

            Sherlock, wearing the uniform of a security guard, looks disheveled, winded, and excited.  “I’ve solved it, John,” he whispers urgently.  “The statues in the garden told me everything I needed to know.  Their composition in particular.  Very rare kind of marble.  Now, we have two and a half minutes until someone comes to locate the clothing I’ve borrowed, so I suggest we—”  He stops.  “Who is _that_?”

            “That’s _you_ ,” John replies, looking back at the young actor.  “Sort of.  He’s much nicer than you, though.  I’m considering taking him back home instead.”

            “ _Don’t_ ,” says Sherlock, glowering, apparently deeply offended.  “He’s completely wrong.  About everything.  Especially the walls.  How on earth are they so taken with him?  Never mind, we’re leaving.”

            “Oh, but I was supposed to talk to—”

            “Well, send them an email _later_ , John, we need to go _now_.”

            John sighs but complies, leaving Benedict Cumberbatch to his enraptured audience and resigning himself to getting in touch with Steven Moffat later.  Maybe he could send him a tweet or something.

           Once he figures out how to work Twitter, that is.

\---


End file.
